


Adore Me (love me, please)

by ReduxCath



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, StarKid Productions RPF
Genre: Desperation, F/M, Let's explore how utterly sad Linda Monroe is, Mentions of Sex, Sad, What do you think happens when a demon approaches someone who feels unloved?, mentions of cucking if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23194132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: All I ever wanted was to be really, and actually, loved.
Relationships: Gerald Monroe/Linda Monroe, Linda Monroe/Wilbur Cross, Wiley/Linda Monroe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Adore Me (love me, please)

Your name is Linda Monroe, and you’ve seen God.

You’ve seen His glory, His decadence, His utter authority in all it’s splendor. You were chosen by Him, delivered news of your holy Assignment by a man in a dirty jean jacket who cradled you, understood you, and opened your eyes to the Truth.

And you accepted the Truth with all your might.

The mall was easy to subdue and to put under your will. Once the Blessing of your Lord had manifested within you, all those who had heard His Holy Giggle knew of your authority and fell under your command. You led them all, gentle sheep without guidance, to a proper way of acting. You watched as they cast their false gods away, tore from their bodies the many and varied tokens of their failed religions. You breathed in their cries of jubilation as they freed themselves from the false (if convenient) stories that had plagued them, people of every gender casting away their pasts to follow the Light—your God’s Light, through your dispensation. And you personally set fire to that pile with your own cigarette lighter.

The world needs but one dogma now.

You put your idiot husband on Facetime, let him watch the blaze of freedom from the car, let him hear the way the women cleaned your robe and hat and shoes. “What do you think, darling?” You smile at him, your cheekbones lit perfectly by the fire of righteous apostasy.

“Well, um…” His pupils are small, his breathing is near-nonexistent— **fear, fear in his heart, Linda, you don’t need him to be your Vewwy Special Fwiend** —and he smiles a timid smile. “…never thought I’d be married to a cult leader before.”

“I despise that word, ‘cult’,” you say as a man who had previously been in such a hurry (so lost, so lost) peppers your cheekbones with kisses and strokes the back of your head ( _yes, adore me_ ). “I prefer to think of this as…”

“as…?” You can see something breaking in his eyes.

**You can have as many Vewwy Special Fwiends as you want, Linda!**

“…a simple Revelation.” When the man’s longer hair begins to tickle your shoulders and his gentle teeth reach your earlobe, your husband freezes, his cheeks tint with a heavy pink, and you observe him in his delicious cowardice for a few minutes as he struggles to choose between ending the call and not.

You, in your wisdom and mercy as the Priestess of God, do it for him.

“Oh, Gerald…” You sigh as another man wraps his fingers around your own and makes you even more warm.

Gerald Monroe. Top of his class at Harvard, was headed towards orthopedic surgery before you met him and he realized that one of his joys in life was giving you the nose job you had always wanted. An interesting fellow, to be sure. Above average in the sexual arts, with a hefty proof of his own manhood, but lacking in other areas. Sure, the new nose made you look absolutely _gorgeous_ and it was the best decision you ever made—but that was it.

Your nose job was the best decision you ever made.

You tried for years to dig out true love from Gerald, before Wiggly blessed you and sent his handsome angel to reveal your true purpose to your tired heart. You tried to be a good wife. Tied up your hair, took off your nail polish (you even gained a bit of a knack for fixing pipes), and dusted off your mother’s cooking book so that you could provide your children with delicious, healthy meals. You knew they’re healthy because you checked the recipes and talked with the best nutritionists about the benefits of several ingredients and cooking methods. And you knew they’re delicious because you’ve had many a different person tell you so.

Many a different child, tell you so.

But your husband grew so busy, so incensed with his career and his work and his things, that he grew staler than he had ever been when he began. You realized that a large endowment (financially and otherwise), a sculpted frame, and pretty eyes were not the true treasure of the world. He gave you a beautiful nose (goddamned fucking gorgeous) and many, many things, but even your nose felt so cold at night some times.

So you tried to gain that secret thing from your children. That pearl in the sand that a man is supposed to trade all the treasure in the world for—according to your mother’s faith (which you now know to be heathenry in the eyes of the Wiggly One).

“They’re ungrateful little brats, baby.” Wiley, Wiggly’s gorgeous angel says as he cradles your frame behind one of the Cinnabon counters. He’s listened to you recount the tales of your unsuccessful attempts at rearing them to be good children, even though he knows everything about you already.

“…They aren’t all the time.” You murmur, smelling the honey of Wiggly on his chest hair.

They weren’t brats all the time. You remember, vaguely, the way their cheeks scrunched up with delight when they played. You remember the way that they all got their love of pasta from you, how pasta was a nearly-sacred meal in your home. You remember, a little, the way they looked so sweet and good when they slept in your arms.

…But you have limits, as a woman and as a person.

You will never forget when your first-born son, his blonde hair shining in the light of the hallway, looked so unrepentant when your father’s vase (a graduation gift from your days at Duke) lay broken at his feet. You will never forget the way your second-born son spat out cookies you made for him in front of all his friends, who had all given you ‘pleases’ and ‘thank-you’s’ and had gobbled them up.

You can’t forget the way your husband just…let them run all over you.

Bought them things to quiet them down but never…

“… _did_ anytyin’.” The angel says as he moves his hand down your front and _does something_.

Something your husband forgot to do long ago.

And in a sense, Wiley is repeating a scene you’ve had a few times since you began to lose your faith in Gerald. You met with that Australian with the small chin and the big hair, as well as with that Englishman with the freckled complexion (by the Grace of Wiggly, none of your kids have freckles). You found that secret thing that was supposed to be supplied by your sacred bond fastened by God—you found that secret thing outside of it.

Sure, Gerald still has the greatest endowment of all those men (except for Wiley because Wiley is literally made of the holiest magics).

But like Wiley, all those men appreciated you.

They talked to you.

They took you by the hand and kissed you and didn’t look like they were about to pee their pants.

They let their calls go to voicemail _in front of you._

They listened to you and they said (like Wiley is doing right now as he kisses your nose) ‘I understand’.

And you felt so, so happy, because you felt them loving—

**You got adored, hee hee!**

True. You felt their adoration.

Back then, you thought it was their love. Their love that couldn’t be allowed to flower because of restrictive social conventions. Their love that their bastard children would balk at recognizing because Gerald was much richer than their real fathers could ever hope to be.

But now you know it’s adoration. You know that you loved the way they kissed your feet when you stepped on their chests, the way they caressed your body as though you were made of the most expensive crystal. You know now that the way they said your name in _worship_ was an indication of your worth.

A hint at what was to come.

And in the arms of the angel, you look him in the eye (while chewing on a small bit of cinnamon bun that he brought out), and you stop smiling. “Will you be with me forever?” You offer up the supplication to both him and to your God, asking him to grant your dream of dreams. You can feel it, vestiges of your mother’s teachings, of your many friends’ expectations, of your own fantasies as a child and teenager: You see yourself and Wiley dressed in white, church bells ringing, him putting a ring on your finger and you moving to a good house with one happy child.

The other men around you both, limp and weak, whine. Without moving a muscle, you silence them.

“Any one of these people can be your Vewwy Special Fwiend.” He says, smile crinkling a little with mischief at the silly (and holy) way your God speaks to you and His Chosen. The men around you look up in silence, waiting, hopeful that their fellow man will speak on their behalf. Because they adore you more than they had ever adored their spouses previous to you.

As Wiley touches you the fantasy is blessed with the green light of your Lord, and it begins to dissolve in the presence of Truth, which is more immense and immaculate than anything any of your conceptions could ever hope to achieve.

“…I know.” You stop holding his tool. You go to hold his hand instead (and he takes it and your heart blooms inside you like Gerald could never make it bloom). You are willing and able and ready to be whatever Wiggly wants you to be, but you offer Wiley the last vestiges of the domestic dream as you squeeze his fingers. “…But, I want you to be my Best Vewwy Special Fwiend.”

Gerald, who is perched on a box and has been watching you on Facetime, gulps and opens his mouth. "I-I thought--" He blinks, thinks, chooses his words very carefully because he now has a much better conception of exactly what it is that you are doing. "...I thought _I_ was your Vewwy Special Fwiend." 

"Awww." The man who used to be in a hurry says, alongside other men. 

You smack them with the cinnabon cup. They go for it. But Gerald doesn't go for it. He can't physically, but his eyes don't move from where they look at you through the screen. You roll your eyes. "Yeah, yeah, sure." You flick your hand away and return to the embrace of your angel with the huggable body, the soft chest hair, and the low drawl.

Wiley chuckles low as he gives your husband a hot wink that makes him squirm. He turns to you, kisses your chin, your forehead, your lips. A ring forms around your finger and his.

_“Alright.”_

And you can feel him with you no matter where you go.

This is the evidence that you were looking for all your life. Evidence of Love. Evidence of Truth. Proof that God is real, that the world isn’t just a crazy mess and that your mom, as dumb as she was, may just have been onto something. Your God blessed you with a lover in His strong Agent. And you know, because Wiggly Lord is a fwiend that keeps His pwomises, that he shall never be away from you. That you will always be together.

Not away from you when you rally the mall inhabitants to look for the doll in possession of that stupid girl.

Not away from you when you were brought a drugged (ha) Becky Barnes and an empty-handed child (who surely would love your cookies if they got the chance to taste them).

Not away from you when you got your hands on Your Lord’s Most Holy Totem, ripping them from the hands of that drunk bastard who once seemed like he had some future.

You know that Wiley is near to you in every step, every second blessed by Wiggly.

You can see it in your mind’s eye—right up to the moment the bullet from Becky’s gun touches your forehead’s skin. You can see yourself emerging from the mall, ready to bring Wiley’s Holy Love upon the world. You see your children begging you to love them, but you sweetly (and with the ichor of revenge) tell them that all the people of the world are your children, and that you must go to them all. You see Wiley and Gerald walking with you, Gerald’s eternally blushing face hot as Wiley whispers all the things he’ll do to you in his ear, his arm around his neck, in front of everyone, because all social norms are gone in that gorgeous and wonderful future where everyone will know who you are.

You see yourself and Wiley, Gerald now fully dissolved, in Wiggly’s embrace in the Black and White, united forever in the adoration of him and of all the world’s worshippers—in the love you’ve always wanted. In their compliments which never cease. In the way that Wiley tells you, over and over, that you’re the most important person in the entire world.

When you fall to the ground, a bullet in your brain and your neurons trying in vain to do anything about it, your eyes roll back and you see Wiley there in the deep black.

You stretch your hand with the ring out.

He takes it, his own ring cool to the touch.

“We tried. We tried really hard…” You say, tears in your soul-eyes. Because now the world won’t know of the Love of God and you can feel Death creeping upon you.

“You did…” He strokes your chin, makes your heart flower like it did back then, like Gerald should have always done, like you dreamed ever since you were a little girl.

“…It was a good first step.” He says, warmly, sweetly, as he cradles your soul in his arms and kisses you and makes you see the totality of what he wanted to offer you.

You smile, sigh, lean into Wiley’s secure, friendly chest, and fall through his rugged fingers.

**_ wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww _ **

The woman is now gone.

You bend down, pick up her hat. Put it to your lips and inhale the vestiges of her scent which was so, so totally enamored with you. You hear her voice, her cries of pleasure, and her secret whispers that betrayed her desire for monogamy with a man who would understand, her secret promise that she would have done her very, very best with you.

It doesn’t go with your outfit.

You let it fall again. Into the sands which were her, so shiny and sparkly in the green light of your angry, frustrated Lord.

“We can try again, Your Grace. Got us all the time in the world…”

You chuckle along with your God as the sands spiral outwards, sparkling, glittering—until finally, no one could ever hope to see them anymore. Until they are as distant as the cries of a world so stupid that they’ll fall over backward into a nuclear conflict.

At the very least, she was pretty ‘till the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Take what you want.  
> Return what you get.


End file.
